POOR  JACK 

A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 


PRIVATELY    PRINTED 


POOR  JACK 


A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 


)  old  acquaintance!  could  not  all 
this  flesh 

Keep  in  a  little  life!  Poor  Jack,  farewell! 
I  could  have  better  spared  a  better  man." 


PRIVATELY    PRINTED 

RICHMOND 

1906 


To  R.  D.  L.: 

'There  are  some  ghosts/'  said  poor  Jack, 
"that  will  not  easily  bear  raising ..." 

Thus  am  I  confounded  by  words  of  my  own 
choosing,  for  in  truth  I  have  raised  one;  and 
not  for  me,  as  for  Dame  Sylvia,  does  Chivalry 
blow  upon  a  silver  horn  to  drown  the  squeak- 
ings  of  that  folly.  Which  is  merely  another 
way  of  saying  that  those  younglings  we  two 
know  and  love,  and  who  fretted  me  into  the 
writing  of  a  play  for  their  theatricals,  have  re- 
jected the  outcome  after  a  tentative  rehearsal, 
with  certain  remarks  for  my  pondering. 

Well  might  that  fat  whoresome  man  have 
been  left  to  the  undignified  fate  his  creator  had 
appointed  for  him! — or  at  least  in  the  staider 
trappings  wherewith  I  did  gird  his  behe- 
mothian  bulk  in  my  story,  The  Love  Letters 
of  Falstaff.  Decked  for  the  stage  and  with 
bella  donna  in  its  eyes,  my  sketch,  they  tell  me, 
is  a  ghastly  remains  to  which  the  footlights 
would  add  but  the  effect  of  funeral  candles.  In 
fine,  that  which  lacks  both  plot  and>action,  and 
offers,  in  lieu  of  lusty  characters,  four  gray 
ghosts,  is  not  a  play  but  an  edifying  expose  of 


the  pitfalls  and  snares  into  which  a  romancist 
might  be  expected  to  stumble  when  he  dons  the 
habit  of  a  playwright.  These  and  many  other 
plaints  which  I  shall  strive  to  live  down  in  the 
years  before  me,  conveyed  a  discomforting 
unanimity  of  opinion  on  the  part  of  my  hope- 
ful players. 

With  such  humility  as  becomes  one  of  our 
soberer  estate  in  the  presence  of  these,  our 
juniors  and  betters,  I  pointed  out  that  it  was 
not  my  fault,  assuredly,  that  Falstaff  was  no 
longer  the  merry  taker  of  purses  whose  roar- 
ing oaths  had  filled  all  Gadshill.  Nor  that  Will 
had  never  displayed  any  very  hearty  admira- 
tion for  humanity  nor  found  many  more  com- 
mendable traits  in  general  exercise  among  its 
individuals  than  did  the  authors  of  the  Bible: 
a  spirit  which,  however  distasteful  to  my  pal- 
ate, I  was  obliged  in  this  instance  to  emulate ! 
Yet  I  dared  think  (and  my  defense  grew 
noticeably  weaker  under  their  incredulous 
stare)  that  old,  gross  and  decayed  as  he  had 
grown,  the  demiurge  still  clings  to  the  old 
reprobate;  yea,  and  the  aura  of  divinity  to 
Helen,  whose  beauty  is  drifting  dust,  so  that 
Falstaff  sees  before  him  not  Sylvia  Vernon  but 
Sylvia  Darke. 


Poor  FalstafF.  "Were't  not  for  laughing  I 
should  pity  him!" 

But  they  had  since  ceased  to  listen.  Vanished 
were  they  like  the  merry  company  whose  mere 
names,  thought  Falstaff,  were  like  a  breath  of 
country  air.  My  script  lay  before  me,  eloquent 
in  naught  but  their  disillusion.  Alone,  I  thought 
the  fire  winked  knowingly  at  me,  much  like  the 
one  I  had  fanned  from  the  embers  of  the  past, 
as  if  it  said :  How  old  must  a  man  become  'ere 
he  shall  be  wise  enough  to  content  these  sure 
young  critics,  so  awfully  and  so  inevitably 
right  ? 

I  should  have  dropped  the  record  of  my  folly 
into  the  flames  and  so  played  out  the  last  scene 
in  my  puppet's  stead,  had  I  not  remembered  in 
time  my  promise  to  you.  Well ! — you  had  ex- 
pected to  receive  it  worn  from  the  caresses  of 
eager  thumbs,  scented  perhaps  with  the  bouquet 
of  reverent  applause.  It  comes  to  you  fresh 
and  unmarred  by  any  defacing  ardor ;  only  its 
theme  is  sere,  only  its  author's  vanity  thumb- 
marked  ! 

And  remember:  'tis  not  a  play  you  give  to 
the  world  but  rather  a  spirit  croaking  to  itself 
in  a  house  where  nobody  has  lived  for  a  long 

time-  /.  B.  C. 


CAST 

SIR  JOHN  FALSTAFF 

Sometime  friend  to  H.  M.  Henry  V 

BARDOLPH 

His  serving  man 

DAME  QUICKLY 

Mistress  of  the  Boar's  Head  Inn 

LADY  SYLVIA  VERNON 

She  that  was  Sylvia  Darke. 


POOR  JACK 

(The  curtain  rises  to  show  the  Angel  room 
of  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern  in  East  cheap.  'Tis 
the  private  parlor  of  the  mistress  of  the  inn, 
DAME  QUICKLY. 

At  the  back  is  a  high  fireplace  with  heavy 
leaded  diamond  paned  windows  on  either  side. 
At  the  left  is  the  doorway  leading  to  the  tap 
room,  on  the  right  a  huge  clothes  press.  When 
our  play  opens  DAME  QUICKLY  is  demurely 
stirring  the  fire  while  BARDOLPH  is  sorting  gar- 
ments which  he  takes  from  the  press.  We  hear 
a  quivery  voice  singing:" Then  Came  Bold  Sir 
Caradoc"  .  .  and  SIR  JOHN  FALSTAFF  fumbles 
at  the  door  and  enters.  It  is  a  FALSTAFF  much 
broken  since  his  loss  of  the  King's  favor  and 
now  equally  decayed  in  wit,  health  and  reputa- 
tion. His  paunch  alone  remains  prosperous 
and  monstrous  and  contrasts  greatly  with  the 
shrunken  remainder  of  the  man.  He  is  par- 
ticularly shaky  this  morning  after  a  night's 
hard  drinking.  Nevertheless  he  'enters  with 
what  cheerfulness  he  can  muster.) 


FALSTAFF 

(sings)  Then  came  the  Bold  Sir  Caradoc — 
Ah,  Mistress  what  news?  —  and  eke  Sir 
Pellinore — Did  I  rage  last  night,  Bardolph? 
Was  I  a  Bedlamite? 

BARDOLPH 

As  mine  own  bruises  can  testify.  Had  each 
one  of  them  a  tongue  they  would  raise  a  clamor 
beside  which  Babel  were  an  heir  weeping  for 
his  rich  uncle's  death;  their  testimony  would 
qualify  you  for  any  mad-house  in  England. 
And  if  their  evidence  go  against  the  doctor's 
stomach,  the  watchman  at  the  corner  hath 
three  teeth — or  rather,  hath  them  no  longer, 
since  you  knocked  them  out  last  night,  that  will 
willingly  aid  him  to  digest  it. 

FALSTAFF 

(as  he  stiffly  lowers  his  great  body  into  the 
great  chair  that  awaits  him  beside  the  fire  and 
stretches  his  hands  to  catch  the  heat  of  the 
flames.)  Three  say  you?  I  would  have  my 
valor  in  all  men's  mouths,  but  not  in  this  fash- 
ion, for  it  is  too  biting  a  jest.  Three,  say  you? 
Well,  I  am  glad  it  was  no  worse;  I  have  a  ten- 
der conscience  and  that  mad  fellow  of  the 
North,  Hotspur,  sits  heavily  upon  it,  so  that 
thus  this  Percy,  being  slain  by  my  valor,  is 

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per  se  avenged,  a  plague  upon  him!  Three, 
say  you  ?  I  would  to  God  my  name  were  not  so 
terrible  to  the  enemy  as  it  is;  I  would  I  had 
'bated  my  natural  inclination  somewhat  and 
slain  less  tall  fellows  by  three  score.  I  doubt 
Agamemnon  slept  not  well  o'  nights.  Three, 
say  you?  Give  the  fellow  a  crown  apiece  for 
his  mouldy  teeth,  if  thou  hast  them;  if  thou 
hast  them  not,  bid  him  eschew  this  vice  of 
drunkenness  whereby  his  misfortune  hath  be- 
fallen him,  and  thus  win  him  heavenly  crowns. 

BARDOLPH 

Indeed  Sir,  I  doubt 

FALSTAFF 

(testily)  Doubt  not,  Sirrah!  (He  continues 
more  calmly  in  a  virtuous  manner)  Was  not 
the  apostle  reproved  for  that  same  sin?  Thou 
art  a  Didymus,  Bardolph,  —  an  incredulous 
paynim,  a  most  unspeculative  rogue.  Have  I 
carracks  trading  in  the  Indies  ?  Have  I  robbed 
the  exchequer  of  late?  Have  I  the  Golden 
Fleece  for  a  cloak?  Nay,  it  is  a  paltry  gimlet, 
and  that  augurs  badly.  Why  does  this  knavish 
watchman  take  me  for  a  raven  to  feed  him  in 
the  wilderness?  Tell  him  that  there  are  no 
such  ravens  hereabouts ;  else  I  had  ravenously 
limed  the  house-tops  and  sets  springes  in  the 

ii 


gutters.  Inform  him  that  my  purse  is  no  bet- 
ter lined  than  his  own  broken  skull :  it  is  void 
as  a  beggar's  protestations,  or  a  butcher's  stall 
in  Lent;  light  as  a  famished  gnat,  or  the  sigh- 
ing of  a  new-made  widower ;  more  empty  than 
a  last  year's  bird's  nest,  than  a  madman's  eye, 
or,  in  fine,  than  the  friendship  of  a  king. 

MISTRESS  QUICKLY 

But  you  have  wealthy  friends,  Sir  John.  (She 
nods  her  head  vigorously)  Yes  I  warrant  you 
Sir  John.  Sir  John,  you  have  a  many  wealthy 
friends;  you  cannot  deny  that,  Sir  John. 

FALSTAFF 

(He  cowers  closer  to  the  fire  as  though  he  were 
a  little  cold)  I  have  no  friends  since  Hal  is 
King.  I  had  I  grant  you,  a  few  score  of  ac- 
quaintances whom  I  taught  to  play  at  dice; 
paltry  young  blades  of  the  City,  very  unfledged 
juvenals !  Setting  my  knighthood  and  my  val- 
or aside,  if  I  did  swear  friendship  with  these, 
I  did  swear  to  a  lie.  But  this  is  a  censorious 
and  muddy-minded  world,  so  that,  look  you, 
even  these  sprouting  aldermen,  these  foul,  ba- 
con-fed rogues,  have  fled  my  friendship  of 
late,  and  my  reputation  hath  grown  somewhat 
more  murky  than  Erebus.  No  matter !  I  walk 
alone  as  one  that  hath  the  pestilence.  No  mat- 

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ter !  But  I  grow  old,  I  am  not  in  the  vanward 
of  my  youth,  Mistress. 

(He  reaches  for  the  cup  of  sack  that  BARDOLPH 
has  poured  out  and  holds  on  a  tray  at  his  el- 
bow.) 

MISTRESS  QUICKLY 

Indeed,  I  do  not  know  what  your  worship  will 
do. 

FALSTAFF 

(Drinks  the  sack  down  and  grins  in  a  some- 
what ghostly  fashions)  Faith!  unless  the 
Providence  that  watches  over  the  fall  of  a 
sparrow  hath  an  eye  to  the  career  of  Sir  John 
Falstaff,  Knight,  and  so  comes  to  my  aid  short- 
ly, I  must  need  convert  my  last  doublet  into  a 
mask  and  turn  highwayman  in  my  shirt.  I  can 
take  purses  yet,  ye  Uzzite  comforters,  as  gaily 
as  I  did  at  Gadshill,  where  that  scurvy  Poins, 
and  he  that  is  now  King,  and  some  twoscore 
other  knaves  did  afterward  assault  me  in  the 
dark;  yet  I  peppered  some  of  them  I  warrant 
you. 

BARDOLPH 

You  must  be  rid  of  me  then,  Master.  I  for 
one  have  no  need  of  a  hempen  collar. 

FALSTAFF 

(stretching  himself  in  the  chair)    I,  too,  would 

13 


be  loth  to  break  the  gallow's  back.  For  fear 
of  halters,  we  must  alter  our  way  of  living; 
we  must  live  close,  Bardolph,  till  the  wars  make 
us  Croesuses  or  food  for  crows.  And  if  Hal 
but  hold  to  his  bias,  there  will  be  wars :  I  will 
eat  a  piece  of  my  sword,  if  he  hath  not  need 
of  it  shortly.  Ah,  go  thy  ways,  tall  Jack;  there 
live  not  three  good  men  in  England  and  one 
of  them  is  fat,  and  grows  old.  We  must  live 
close,  Bardolph,  we  must  forswear  drinking 
and  wenching !  But  there  is  lime  in  this  sack, 
you  rogue,  give  me  another  cup. 
(BARDOLPH  draws  and  brings  him  another  cup 
of  sack  which  he  empties  at  one  long  draught.) 

FALSTAFF 

I  pray  you  hostess,  remember  that  Doll  Tear- 
sheet  sups  with  me  tonight;  have  a  capon  of 
the  best  and  be  not  sparing  of  your  wine.  I 
will  repay  you,  upon  honor,  when  we  young 
fellows  return  from  France,  all  laden  with 
rings  and  brooches  and  such  trumperies  like 
your  Norfolkshire  pedlars  at  Christmas-tide. 
We  will  sack  a  town  for  you,  and  bring  you 
back  the  Lord  Mayor's  beard  to  stuff  you  a 
cushion;  the  Dauphin  shall  be  your  tapster  yet: 
we  will  walk  on  lilies,  I  warrant  you  to  the  tune 
of  "hey  then,  up  go  we." 


MISTRESS  QUICKLY 

Indeed,  Sir,  your  worship  is  as  welcome  to  my 
pantry  as  the  mice — a  pox  on  them — think 
themselves;  you  are  heartily  welcome.  Ah, 
well,  old  Puss  is  dead;  I  had  her  of  Goodman 
Quickly  these  ten  years  since; — but  I  had 
thought  that  you  looked  for  the  lady  who  was 
here  but  now; — she  was  a  roaring  lion  among 
the  mice. 

FALSTAFF 

(with  great  animation)  What  Lady  ?  Was  it 
Flint  the  Mercer's  wife,  think  you?  Ah,  she 
hath  a  liberal  disposition,  and  will,  without  the 
aid  of  Prince  Houssain's  carpet  or  the  horse  of 
Cambuscan,  transfer  the  golden  shining  pieces 
from  her  husband's  coffers  to  mine. 

MISTRESS  QUICKLY 

(after  due  consideration)  No  mercer's  wife, 
I  think.  She  came  with  two  patched  footmen 
and  smelled  of  gentility; — Master  Dumbleton's 
father  was  a  mercer;  but  he  had  red  hair; — 
she  is  old; — and  I  could  never  abide  red  hair. 

FALSTAFF 

No  matter !  I  can  love  this  lady,  be  she  a  very 
Witch  of  Endor.  Observe  what  a  thing  it  is 
to  be  a  proper  man,  Bardolph!  She  hath 
marked  me ; — in  public,  perhaps ;  on  the  street, 

15 


it  may  be; — and  then,  I  warrant  you,  made 
such  eyes!  and  sighed  such  sighs!  and  lain 
awake  o'  nights,  thinking  of  a  pleasing  portly 
gentleman,  whom,  were  I  not  modesty's  self, 
I  might  name ; — and  I,  all  this  while,  not  know- 
ing !  Fetch  me  my  book  of  riddles  and  my  son- 
nets, that  I  may  speak  smoothly.  Why  was 
my  beard  not  combed  this  morning?  No  mat- 
ter, it  will  serve.  Have  I  no  better  cloak  than 
this? 

MISTRESS  QUICKLY 

(who  has  been  looking  out  of  the  window) 
Come,  but  your  worship  must  begin  with  un- 
washed hands,  for  old  Madame  Wishf or't  and 
her  two  country  louts  are  even  now  at  the  door. 

FALSTAFF 

Avaunt,  minions.  Avaunt !  Conduct  the  lady 
hither,  hostess ;  Bardolph  another  cup  of  sack. 
We  will  ruffle  it,  lad,  and  go  to  France  all  gold 
like  Midas!  Are  mine  eyes  too  red?  I  must 
look  sad,  you  know,  and  sigh  very  pitifully. 
Ah,  we  will  ruffle  it!  Another  cup  of  sack, 
Bardolph; — I  am  a  rogue  if  I  have  drunk  to- 
day. And  avaunt !  vanish !  for  the  lady  comes ! 
(He  throws  himself  into  what  he  feels  is  a 
gallant  attitude,  but  that  is  one  that  suggests 
to  the  audience  a  man  suddenly  palsied  trying 

16 


to  imitate  a  turkey  cock  and  struts  to  the  door. 
The  lady  that  enters  is  on  the  staider  side 
of  sixty,  but  the  years  have  touched  her  with 
unwonted  kindliness  and  her  form  is  still  un- 
bent, her  countenance,  although  bloodless  and 
deep  furrowed  still  bears  the  traces  of  great 
beauty  and  she  is  unquestionably  a  person  of 
breeding.  SIR  JOHN  advances  to  her  with  his 
peculiar  strut;  indubitably  he  feels  himself  a 
miracle  of  elegance.) 

FALSTAFF 

See,  from  the  glowing  East,  Aurora  Comes! 
Madam  permit  me  to  welcome  you  to  my  poor 
apartments ;  they  are  not  worthy  .  .  . 

LADY  SYLVIA 

I  would  see  Sir  John  Falstaff,  sir. 

FALSTAFF 

Indeed,  Madam,  if  those  bright  eyes — whose 
glances  have  already  cut  my  poor  heart  into 
as  many  pieces  as  the  man  in  the  front  of  the 
almanac— will  but  desist  for  a  moment  from 
such  butcher's  work  and  do  their  proper  duty, 
you  will  have  little  trouble  in  finding  the  bluff 
soldier  you  seek. 

LADY  SYLVIA 

Are  you  Sir  John?  The  son  of  old  Sir  Edward 
Falstaff  of  Norfolk? 

17 


FALSTAFF 

His  wife  hath  frequently  assured  me  so,  and 
to  confirm  her  evidence  I  have  about  me  a  cer- 
tain villianous  thirst  that  did  plague  Sir  Ed- 
ward sorely  in  his  lifetime  and  came  to  me 
with  his  other  chattels.  The  property  I  have 
expended  long  since;  but  no  Jew  will  advance 
me  a  maravedi  on  the  Falstaff  thirst.  It  is  a 
priceless  commodity,  not  to  be  bought  or  sold ; 
you  might  as  soon  quench  it. 

LADY  SYLVIA 

I  would  not  have  known  you,  but,  I  have  not 
seen  you  these  forty  years. 

FALSTAFF 

Faith,  Madam,  the  great  pilferer  Time  hath 
taken  away  a  little  from  my  hair,  and  some- 
what added — saving  your  presence — to  my 
belly;  and  my  face  hath  not  been  improved  by 
being  the  grindstone  for  some  hundred  swords. 
But  I  do  not  know  you. 

LADY  SYLVIA 

I  am  Sylvia  Vernon.  And  once  years  ago  I 
was  Sylvia  Darke. 

FALSTAFF 

I  remember.  (His  voice  changes,  he  also  loses 
his  strut  as  he  hands  LADY  SYLVIA  to  the  great 
chair.) 

18 


LADY  SYLVIA 

(after  a  long  pause)  A  long  time  ago.  Time 
hath  dealt  harshly  with  us  both,  John; — the 
name  hath  a  sweet  savor.  I  am  an  old  woman 
now.  And  you  ? 

FALSTAFF 

I  would  not  have  known  you.  (Resentfully) 
What  do  you  here  ? 

LADY  SYLVIA 

My  son  goes  to  the  wars  and  I  am  come  to 
bid  him  farewell ;  yet  I  should  not  tarry  in  Lon- 
don for  my  lord  is  feeble  and  hath  constant 
need  of  me.  But  I,  an  old  woman,  am  yet  vain 
enough  to  steal  these  few  moments  from  him 
who  needs  me,  to  see  for  the  last  time,  mayhap, 
him  who  once  was  my  very  dear  friend. 

FALSTAFF 

I  was  never  your  friend,  Sylvia. 

LADY  SYLVIA 

(with  a  wistful  smile)  Ah  the  old  wrangle. 
My  dear  and  very  honored  lover,  then;  and  I 
am  come  to  see  him  here. 

FALSTAFF 

Ay  ...  Tis  a  quiet  orderly  place,  where 
I  bestow  my  patronage;  the  woman  of  the 
house  had  a  husband  once  in  my  Company. 
God  rest  his  soul !  he  bore  a  good  pike.  He  re- 

19 


tired  in  his  old  age  and  'stablished  this  tavern 
where  he  passed  his  declining  years,  till  death 
called  him  gently  away  from  this  naughty 
world.  God  rest  his  soul,  say  I.  (aside)  God 
wot,  I  cannot  tell  her  that  the  rogue  Kvas 
knocked  over  the  head  with  a  joint-stool  while 
rifling  the  pockets  of  a  drunken  roisterer ! 

LADY  SYLVIA 

And  you  for  old  memories'  sake  yet  aid  his 
widow?  That  is  like  you,  John.  (There  is  a 
long  silence  in  which  the  crackling  of  the  fire 
can  be  plainly  heard.)  And  are  you  sorry  that 
I  come  again,  in  a  worse  body,  John,  strange 
and  time  ruined? 

FALSTAFF 

Sorry?  .  .  .  No,  faith !  but  there  are  some 
ghosts  that  will  not  easily  bear  raising  and  you 
have  raised  one. 

LADY  SYLVIA 

We  have  summoned  up  no  very  fearful  spectre, 
I  think.  At  most  no  worse  than  a  pallid  gentle 
spirit  that  speaks — to  me  at  least — of  a  boy 
and  a  girl  who  loved  each  other  and  were  very 
happy  a  great  while  ago. 

FALSTAFF 

And  you  come  hither  to  seek  that  boy?  The 
boy  that  went  mad  and  rhymed  of  you  in  those 

20 


far  off  dusty  years  ?  He  is  quite  dead,  my  lady, 
he  was  drowned,  mayhap  in  a  cup  of  wine;  or 
he  was  slain,  perchance,  by  some  few  light  wo- 
men. I  know  not  how  he  died.  But  he  is  quite 
dead,  my  lady,  and  I  had  not  been  haunted  by 
his  ghost  until  to-day.  (He  breaks  into  a  fit 
of  unromantic  coughing) 

LADY  SYLVIA 

He  was  a  dear  boy.  A  boy  who  loved  a  young 
maid  very  truly;  a  boy  that  found  the  maid's 
father  too  strong  and  shrewd  for  desperate 
young  lovers — eh,  how  long  ago  it  seems  and 
what  a  flood  of  tears  the  poor  maid  shed  at  be- 
ing parted  from  that  dear  boy. 

FALSTAFF 

Faith !  the  rogue  had  his  good  points. 

LADY  SYLVIA 

Ah,  John,  you  have  not  forgotten,  I  know  and 
you  will  believe  me  that  I  am  heartily  sorry 
for  the  pain  I  brought  into  your  life. 

FALSTAFF 

My  wounds  heal  easily — 

LADY  SYLVIA 

For  though  my  dear  dead  father  was  too  wise 
for  us,  and  knew  it  was  for  the  best  that  I 
should  not  accept  your  love,  believe  me  John, 
I  always  knew  the  value  of  it  and  have  held  it 

21 


an  honor  that  any  woman  must  prize. 

FALSTAFF 

Dear  Lady,  the  world  is  not  altogether  of  your 
opinion. 

LADY  SYLVIA 

I  know  not  of  the  world,  for  we  live  away  from 
it.  But  we  have  heard  of  you  ever  and  anon; 
I  have^  your  life  writ  letter  perfect  these  forty 
years  or  more. 

FALSTAFF 

You  have  heard  of  me  ? 

LADY  SYLVIA 

As  a  gallant  and  brave  soldier.  Of  how  you 
fought  at  sea  with  Mowbray  that  was  after- 
ward Duke  of  Norfolk;  of  your  knighthood 
by  King  Richard;  of  how  you  slew  the  Percy 
at  Shrewsbury;  and  captured  Coleville  o'  late 
in  Yorkshire;  and  how  the  prince,  that  is  now 
King,  did  love  you  above  all  other  men;  and  in 
fine,  of  many  splendid  doings  in  the  great 
world. 

FALSTAFF 

I  have  fought  somewhat.  But  we  are  not 
Bevis  of  Southhampton ;  we  have  slain  no 
giants.  Have  you  heard  naught  else? 

LADY  SYLVIA 

Little  else  of  note.    But  we  are  very  proud  of 

22 


you  at  home  in  Norfolk.  And  such  tales  as  I 
have  heard  I  have  woven  together  in  one  story ; 
ard  I  have  told  it  many  times  to  my  children 
as  we  sat  on  the  old  Chapel  steps  at  evening 
and  the  shadows  lengthened  across  the  lawn, 
and  I  bid  them  emulate  this,  the  most  perfect 
knight  and  gallant  gentleman  I  have  ever 
known.  And  they  love  you,  I  think,  though 
but  by  repute. 
(There  is  another  long  silence,  finally — ) 

FALSTAFF 

Do  you  still  live  at  Winstead? 

LADY  SYLVIA 

Yes,  in  the  old  house.  It  is  little  changed,  but 
there  are  many  changes  about. 

FALSTAFF 

Is  Moll  yet  with  you  that  did  once  carry  our 
letters? 

LADY  SYLVIA 

Married  to  Hodge,  the  tanner,  and  dead  long 
since. 

FALSTAFF 

And  all  our  merry  company?  Marian?  and 
Tom  and  little  Osric  ?  And  Phyllis  ?  and  Ade- 
lais  ?  Zounds,  it  is  like  a  breath  of  country  air 
to  speak  their  names  once  more. 


LADY  SYLVIA 

(She  speaks  in  a  hushed  voice)  All  dead  save 
Adelais  and  even  to  me  poor  Adelais  seems  old 
and  strange.  Walter  was  slain  in  the  French 
wars  and  she  hath  never  married. 

FALSTAFF 

All  dead  .  .  .  This  same  death  hath  a 
wide  maw.  It  is  not  long  before  you  and  I,  my 
lady,  will  be  at  supper  with  the  worms.  But 
you  at  least  have  had  a  hapy  life  ? 

LADY  SYLVIA 

I  have  been  content  enough,  but  all  that  seems 
run  by;  for,  John,  I  think  that  at  our  age  we 
are  not  any  longer  very  happy,  or  very  miser- 
able. 

FALSTAFF 

Faith!  we  are  both  old;  and  I  had  not  known 
it,  my  lady  until  to-day. 

(Again  silence.  Finally  LADY  SYLVIA  rises 
with  a  start.) 

LADY  SYLVIA 

I  would  I  had  not  come. 

FALSTAFF 

Nay,  this  is  but  a  feeble  grieving  you  have 
awakened.  For,  madam,  you  whom  I  loved 
once — you  are  in  the  right.  Our  blood  runs 

24 


thinner  than  of  yore;  and  we  may  no  longer, 
I  think,  either  rejoice  or  sorrow  very  deeply. 

LADY  SYLVIA 

It  is  true  ...  I  must  go  ...  and 
indeed  I  would  to  God,  that  I  had  not  come. 
^FALSTAFF  bows  his  head  and  remains  silent. 
Presently  she  goes  on)  Yet,  there  is  some- 
thing here  which  I  must  keep  no  longer;  for 
here  are  all  the  letters  you  ever  writ  me.  (She 
hands  him  a  little  packet.  He  turns  them  awk- 
wardly in  his  hands  once  or  twice;  stares  at 
them  and  then  at  her.) 

FALSTAFF 

You  have  kept  them — always? 

LADY  SYLVIA 

Yes,  but  I  must  not  be  guilty  of  continuing  such 
follies.  It  is  a  villainous  example  to  my  grand- 
children .  .  .  Farewell. 
( FALSTAFF  draws  close  to  her  and  takes  both 
her  hands  in  his.  He  looks  her  in  the  eyes  and 
draws  himself  very  erect.) 

FALSTAFF 

How  I  loved  you! 

LADY  SYLVIA 

I  know  and  I  thank  you  for  your  gift,  my  lover, 
O  brave,  true  lover,  whose  love  I  was  not  ever 
ashamed  to  own !  Farewell,  my  dear,  yet  a  lit- 

25 


tie  while,  and  I  go  to  seek  the  boy  and  girl  we 
know  of. 

FALSTAFF 

I  shall  not  be  long,  madam.  Speak  a  kind 
word  for  me  in  Heaven;  for  I  have  sore  need 
of  it. 

LADY  SYLVIA 

(By  this  time  she  has  reached  the  door)  You 
are  not  sorry  that  I  came? 

FALSTAFF 

There  are  many  wrinkles  now  in  your  dear 
face,  my  lady,  the  great  eyes  are  a  little  dim- 
med, and  the  sweet  laughter  is  a  little  cracked; 
but  I  am  not  sorry  to  have  seen  you  thus.  For 
I  have  loved  no  woman  truly  save  you  alone; 
and  I  am  not  sorry.  Farewell.  (He  bends  over 
and  reverently  kisses  her  fingers.  Then  she 
leaves  as  quietly  as  a  cloud  passes.) 

FALSTAFF 

(he  goes  back  to  the  chair  by  the  fire  and  sits 
at  ease)  Lord,  Lord,  how  subject  we  old  men 
are  to  the  vice  of  lying  .  .  .  Yet  it  was 
not  all  a  lie; — but  what  a  coil  over  a  youthful 
greensickness  'twixt  a  lad  and  a  wench  more 
than  forty  years  syne.  ...  I  might  have 
had  money  of  her  for  the  asking,  yet  I  am  glad 
I  did  not;  which  is  a  parlous  sign  and  smacks 

26 


of  dotage  .  .  .  Were  it  not  a  quaint  con- 
ceit, a  merry  tickle-brain  of  Fate  that  this 
mountain  of  malmsey  were  once  a  delicate 
stripling  with  apple  cheeks  and  a  clean  breath, 
smelling  of  civit  and  as  mad  for  love,  I  war- 
rant you  as  any  Amadis  of  them  all?  For,  if 
a  man  were  to  speak  truly,  I  did  love  her.  I 
had  special  marks  of  the  pestilence.  Not  all 
the  flagons  and  apples  in  the  universe  might 
have  comforted  me;  I  was  wont  to  sigh  like 
a  leaky  bellows;  to  weep  like  a  wench  that  is 
lost  of  her  granddam;  to  lard  my  speech  with 
the  f  agends  of  ballads  like  a  man  milliner ;  and 
did  indeed  indite  sonnets,  cazonets  and  what 
not  of  mine  own  elaboration  .  .  .  And 
Moll  did  carry  them,  plump,  brown-eyed  Moll 
that  hath  married  Hqdge,  the  tanner  and 
reared  her  tannikins  and  died  long  since. 

Lord,  Lord,  what  did  I  not  write  (He  draws 
a  paper  from  the  packet  and  leaning  over  de- 
ciphers the  faded  writing  by  the  fire  light.) 

Have  pity,  Sylvia!  Cringing  at  thy  door 
Entreats  with  dolorous  cry  and  clamoring 
That  mendicant  who  quits  thee  nevermore; 
Now  winter  chills  the  world,  and,  no  birds 
sing 

27 


In  any  woods,  yet  as  in  wanton  Spring 
He  follows  thee;  and  never  will  have  done 
Though  nakedly  he  die,  from  following 
Whither  thou  leadest.  Canst  thou  look  upon 
His  woes  and  laugh  to  see  a  goddess'  son 
Of  wide  dominion,  and  in  strategy 
More  strong  than  Jove,  more  wise  than  Sol- 
omon, 

Inept  to  combat  thy  severity? 
Have  pity  Sylvia !  And  let  Love  be  one 
Among  the  folk  that  bear  thee  company. 

Is  it  not  the  very  puling  speech  of  your  true 
lover  ?  Faith,  Adam  Cupid,  hath  forsworn  my 
fellowship  long  since ;  he  hath  no  score  chalked 
up  against  him  at  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern;  or 
if  he  have,  I  doubt  not  the  next  street  beggar 
might  discharge  it. 

And  she  hath  commended  me  to  her  children 
as  a  very  gallant  gentleman  and  a  true  knight. 
Jove  that  .sees  all  hath  a  goodly  commodity  of 
mirth;  I  doubt  not  his  sides  ache  at  times,  as 
if  they  had  conceived  another  wine-god. 
"Among  the  folk  that  bear  thee  company" 
Well  well,  it  was  a  goodly  rogue  that  wrote  it, 
though  the  verse  runs  but  lamely!  A  goodly 
rogue. 

28 


f  BARDOLPH  steals  back  into  the  room.) 

BARDOLPH 

Well,  Sir  John? 

FALSTAFF 

(He  addresses  BARDOLPH.  As  the  speech  goes 
on  BARDOLPH  's  jaw  drops  lower  and  lower  as 
he  gapes  his  astonishment)  Look  you,  he  might 
have  lived  cleanly  and  forsworn  sack,  he  might 
have  been  a  gallant  gentleman  and  begotten 
grandchildren  and  had  a  quiet  nook  at  the  in- 
gleside  to  rest  his  old  bones;  but  he  is  dead 
long  since.  He  might  have  writ  himself  arm- 
igero  in  many  a  bill  or  obligation  or  quittance 
or  what  not ;  he  might  have  left  something  be- 
hind him  save  unpaid  tavern  bills;  he  might 
have  heard  cases,  harried  poachers  and  quoted 
old  saws;  and  slept  in  his  own  family  chapel 
through  sermons  yet  unwrit,  beneath  his  pre- 
sentment, done,  in  stone,  and  a  comforting  bit 
of  Latin  but  he  is  dead  long  since. 
(^MISTRESS  QUICKLY  too  steals  in.) 

MISTRESS  QUICKLY 

Well,  Sir  John? 

FALSTAFF 

(Continues  his  meditation,  unaware  of  them) 
Zooks,  I  prate  like  a  death's  head.  »  A  thing 
done  hath  an  end,  God  have  mercy  on  us  all ! 


And  I  will  read  no  more  of  the  rubbish.  (He 
casts  the  papers  into  the  heart  of  the  fire;  they 
blase  up  and  he  watches  them  burn  to  the  last 
spark.  Then  he  gives  himself  a  mighty  shake) 
A  cup  of  sack  to  purge  the  brain !  And  I  will 
go  sup  with  Doll  Tearsheet. 

( The  curtain  falls  quickly,  it  also  is  happy 
the  play  hath  ended.) 


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